Thrandir was a very short, wiry half-elven teenager with bushy brown hair, green eyes, and a perpetual smirk on his face which either comes off as a smug or mischievous depending on how you feel about Thrandir at the time. His hair concealed the pointed ears of his elven heritage, but his facial features are still somewhat elfin.


Thrandir – half-elven Rogue/Wizard (Diviner)

Died in the tunnels underneath Warren’s Mill, killed by the cursed undead Rodther Bakerson.

Survived by his mother, Gisetta Augraine, House of the Diviners in Draima and his Grandfather, ____ a member of the Council of Ten

Return of Thrandir
Thrandir awakened, coughing and retching on a hard stone floor, covered in a thick stinking black muck. Hot and foul, the muck clung to his naked skin. Trying to push himself up, the muck slipped under his hands and his face smacked painfully against the smooth cold stone floor.
As he lay there, trying to make sense of the world around him. His last memories flashed through his head, ephemeral images dancing in the back of his mind. An undead monster lunging at him with a sword, its bones smoking from an inner fire. A searing hot pain across his midsection and his companions screaming in horror behind him…Thrandir was sure he was dying as he fell to the ground, the last thing he saw was his familiar, Narhini looking at him with a sad, pained look in his expressive face.
Thrandir pushed himself up again, more carefully this time, black filthy muck dripping from his face and hair. He retched again, black ooze dripping from his lips. The effort too much, he rolled, or more accurately, collapsed on to his side, finally rolling on to his back, the sound of his naked body slapping against the cold floor helped convince him this wasn’t a dream.
He opened his eyes again, to stare at the figures painted on the dark cieling. He was able to recognize the iconography of the goddess Marsa, her loving gaze granting grace and health to all under her. Thrandir smiled to himself, reassured that he was safe and would be cared for; Priests of Marsa were well known for their generosity and dedication to the healing arts. Thrandir allowed exhaustion to take him.

The sound of hobnail boots clinking across the stone floor awakened him, and Thrandir shivered against the cold floor. The boots stopped near him and he opened his eyes. Still in the temple, dawn was creeping in through some window, it was just enough light to see that it wasn’t priests that now stood over him, but brutal-looking human soldiers, garbed in mail and leather and fur. The leader, his unshaven face glaring down at Thrandir as he shivered and trembled then growled at his compatriots. “Yep, this’s him, jus’ like Reynard said. Clap some manacles on him and drag him up to the tower.”
Alarmed, Thrandir reached into himself to draw forth the magic he had empowered himself with earlier – but nothing came. Thrandir immediately began to fight back, kicking and punching as the men grabbed him, and for a moment as his slippery, muck covered limbs prevented his captors from getting a good hold on him, he thought he would escape. Moments later, he heard the distinct sound of a sword being drawn and felt the deadly tip pressed against his back.
“I see you ain’t no stranger to bein’ cut, but I bet you wanna be a stranger to dyin’. Stop fightin’.”

I have been given leave to answer two questions, before I raise you again. Ask them, and if I know the answer, I will give it.


Return of Hadrach Striogi DanielLatta